Page 171 of Chameleon Killer

“Roof access?”

“Negative from this level.”

Brewster's jaw tightened. “Elevators?”

“Still locked.”

“Then he's here.” Brewster gritted out those words like they were a personal affront.

“No,” I told him and everyone looked at me. “I don’t think he was ever here.”

The silence turned profound.

Then Brewster narrowed the gap between us and seemed to ignore the fact his shoulder collided with Flint’s. “You just told me you spoke to him.”

“I did.” It cost me nothing to confirm it.

“From this building.”

“Yes,” I said, agreeing with him, “I was in this building.”

His expression changed again. I could almost watch him rebuilding the question. “Where was he?”

“I don't know.”

Eyes narrowed, he leaned in closer until his breath feathered over my face with every word. “Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“Did you ask?” As intimidation tactics went, questioning me on what I would have asked or not did not help his case.

“Yes.” I refused to be insulted because of course I asked.

“And?”

“He didn't answer.” To be fair, that wasn’t entirely true. Simon had answered me plenty, but he rarely answered the questions I’d been asking.

Brewster studied me for a long moment. “Did he give you a name?”

That was a far more complicated question to answer. Not because of Brewster’s tone—though he was being an ass—but because Simon had given me a name. A simple name. It might be real, I rather doubted that it was. Yet, in giving me a name at my request, it had changed something between us.

The Auditor was a construct. A designation I'd created because I needed language for a pattern. Simon was a person who'd asked why I became a journalist.

A person who knew what my laugh sounded like.

A person who had invited me into a building under conditions he controlled and somehow managed to make me feel like the interviewer even while he dissected every answer I gave him.

Maybe the distinction should have made him seem less dangerous. If anything, it told me just how dangerous he was.

“Why?” I asked.

Brewster's gaze sharpened. “That's not an answer.”

“I’m aware.”

“Did he?”

I held his stare and I refused to bend. If he wanted to make this a real interrogation, I’d get my attorney. That thought sent a sliver of pain through me.